


State of Grace

by kakegoe



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Characters are a bit OOC, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Semi Eita-centric, SemiShira - Freeform, Slow Burn, excessive use of em dash, it's not as heavy as it sounds i swear, no beta we die like daichi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:34:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29085456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakegoe/pseuds/kakegoe
Summary: There is a certain karma that awaits Eita Semi, one he surely does not think will come to bite him in the most profound form it can. They give him a name—Kenjirou Shirabu—and he is flown back thirty days in time for whenever "Kenjirou Shirabu" kills themselves. So, he's left with a job: save the boy, or time will never move for him again.[ ! ] CW: profanities and implied/referenced character death, suicide, abuse
Relationships: Semi Eita & Shirabu Kenjirou, Semi Eita/Shirabu Kenjirou
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	1. Jumper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four months and still no progress. Four months of constantly being thrown back in time. It’s damning, to say the least, and Semi will have already gone crazy had it not been for Tendou to keep his sanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full Disclaimer:
> 
> I do advice to read the tags; there are implied/referenced content warnings in this story. They're not graphically depicted as I, too, tiptoe around any sketchy topic and/or trigger, but they are constantly mentioned and this story will be covering some heavy areas, so read at your own risk (I do promise it's not graphic, but still, tread lightly).
> 
> This is an alternative universe of Magic Realism. If you're not familiar with it, generally, it is defined as "an unbelievably strange occurrence invading a realistic setting," meaning while this does hint a bit of fantasy, ultimately, it's still realism in form. If you can, do read the note at the end for a better explanation of what you will encounter. :)

Eita Semi did not make good choices growing up. Well, everyone surely is no Saint—people occasionally make the wrong choices here and there—but, the thing about Semi is... he _rarely_ makes good choices, and this is under the premises of awareness and a sound mind to weigh his options. It’s just that, Eita Semi—has lesser intentions at being _good._

“Good is relative,” he always says, and for the most part, he is correct; culture and upbringing shapes a person’s own perspective to good and bad. But there is a distinct difference in what is _good_ and what is _right._ Semi rarely does the right.

And there is a certain karma that awaits those who prefer to do the wrong just because they can—just because the means to redemption and alleviate themselves is at their disposal, in one single motion within their hands. There is a certain karma that awaits Semi, one he surely does not think will come to bite him in the most profound form it can.

In a quiet world moving about as mundane as it can get, Semi enjoys himself in the grasps of vices and rebel stories of his own—but what he has no premonition of whatsoever is the true existence of _jumping._

Here’s the thing: it’s not an oblivious fact to the world, nor is it a known fact. _Jumping_ is something only the Jumpers know about, and it has never actually slipped, not even once, that for years the world has gone by, Non-jumpers still have had no idea of the term _jumping._

And it’s not even an accurate word to describe the phenomenon; _jumping_ has been coined by Jumpers overtime, for the lack of a better word. It’s not exactly _teleporting_. It’s not fun and games, and something you can do out of your own free will. _It’s a curse,_ a reset for the entire world. They give you a name—a victim, a broken soul—and you are flown back thirty days in time for whenever they kill themselves. So, if you think about it, _Jumpers_ are more like _rescuers_ , doing everything in their power to keep—whoever the name belongs to—alive, otherwise time will never move for them.

And for Semi, it is a curse. Of course, it is. After all, it is the bad karma for those who abuse too much of life.

It is in this wee roundabout that Semi has started rewiring how he goes to move in the way he lives. Well, he really has had no choice; it has been more of like an involuntary reaction to the stimulus, considering he has had forgotten most part of his routine after unintentionally devoting his everyday living to thinking about the whole concept of “jumping” (Jumping? More like, he’s being _flung_ back in time) and wondering about— _what’s his name?_ —Kenjirou Shirabu.

 _Whoever the fuck that is,_ Semi thinks.

As unfortunate as it is, Semi is on his fourth month as a Jumper (no, no; time still is not moving, but he is keeping count of the days) and yet, still, he has not found the holder of the name he is given. The excruciating thing about this is—among a whole lot of other things—while they hand you a name, they do not provide any other information and/or description about the person a Jumper is supposed to save. _Zilch._ Not a clue, not a hint. Not even a hair colour (which, at this point, Semi will kill to have).

Four months and still no progress. Four months of constantly being thrown back in time. It’s damning, to say the least, and Semi will have already gone crazy had it not been for Tendou to keep his sanity.

“Did you jump again?” The redhead questions casually, unwrapping his cheeseburger as they saunter down the comfortably silent hallways.

Tendou was also a Jumper, keyword being _was._ See, _jumping_ cannot be simultaneous, once a Jumper is done with their part—saves the victim and all that— _jumping_ is passed onto a different person. And it is agitating to think that even after all that _rewinding in time_ whatchamacallit, your memories with jumping never go. The least they can do is to alleviate you of your time with the curse, but no. It remains intact in the back of your mind.

And it doesn’t stop there; you can never forget how it feels, so when a new Jumper is thrown back in time, you will know it. And you are forced to relive your days _knowing_ you are reliving your days—which makes it all the more painful for Tendou when Semi starts to jump again. He’s tired of reliving _December 1 st, 2nd_—all down to _31 st._

Well, Semi thinks it’s alright this way; at least, he has someone to talk about the insufferable karma.

“Tragically,” Semi grumbles, shoulders slumping even lower than usual. “When will this be all over?”

“You know, it doesn’t go away if you don’t make it work,” remarks Tendou, irregularly being too _tame_ for the day. He’s usually feral and unfathomable, in Semi’s honest opinion, although quite less so after that whole jumping ordeal. Perhaps Tendou is just a collateral damage of the weather; it is a pretty gloomy morning.

“Have you any idea of your _rescuee_ already?”

Semi lets out another grumble, scratching the back of his head quite harshly in aggravation.

“No.” He huffs. “I have no idea where the hell I’m supposed to start looking. God, it’s already been four months, I’m actually starting to lose my shit.”

“I can tell.” Tendou adds, “I mean, pink tips, Eita? Really? Not a good look. Dye it black again.”

“However did you manage to find—who was it again?” Semi narrows his eyes in thought. And he clicks his tongue in recognition. “Ah. Tsutomu Goshiki.”

Tendou hums in recall, squinting his gaze at the tiled floors they are currently taking. He finishes the last bite of his cheeseburger, crumples the wrapper and tucks it in his pockets.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Chance, I guess?”

Semi rolls his eyes.

“I hope the kid’s doing good now, though,” Tendou comments and it is only then when Semi finally takes notice of how much Tendou has changed—for the better, that is. He is still the clever, annoyingly cheeky Tendou, but it is more for the amusement now than what was then intentions of hostility. Though, he now has his troubling silent moments, but Semi reasons to himself that perhaps it is just a PTSD-like aftermath to the jumping _._

 _It does that to a person, huh?_ Semi thinks.

“Actually, I think I met him through a friend,” Tendou begins to say again as they near his department. “Yeah. It was through Koganegawa.”

“Lucky.”

Tendou snickers. “You’ll just have to hold onto that sanity a little longer, Semisemi.”

The redhead gives the shorter a condescending tiny pat on the head and Semi replies with a light jab on Tendou’s gut. It’s the tiniest form of affection they can display for each other.

“I’m off, then.” Tendou adds in a singsong voice, “Don’t jump too far.”

Semi rolls his eyes with a light chuckle. “See you around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware how trippy the concept of time can be. Typically, as depicted in common fantasy stories, all the past, present, and future happen at the same time, correct? And a Jumper can just choose to travel into the future or back, but even while he does, any other point in the timeline still plays out, right?
> 
> Yeah, we're not going to do that. (laughs in fiction writing)
> 
> Just to make it easier for everyone here (myself included, Dear God), think of "jumping" in this story as a reset button; whoever the Jumper is, time revolves around him, so whenever Semi jumps back in time, the entire world resets with everyone else (aside from the Jumpers) unaware of it. Just keep it in mind: reset.
> 
> Also, what the hell did I just write.


	2. All's Well that Ends Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Semi doesn’t miss the name that slips the nurse’s pale, chapped lips—the name that flies out of the newly called doctor that runs out from behind the reception counter. His mind statics, eyes widening at the familiar mention.

Semi is nearing his 150th day as a Jumper, and it’s not as entertaining as one thinks it sounds. His back slouches in exhaustion, infuriation, and everything in between, as he reclines his head backwards on the seat, visibly in physical pain at the mere circumstance itself that he is getting nowhere near his supposed rescuee. In 24 hours, “Kenjirou Shirabu” is going to kill themselves—24, or if Semi’s lucky, another 24 (sometimes Lady Luck frowns on him like a bitch and subtracts two 24’s)—and Semi rubs his forehead slowly, trying to soothe away the wrinkles of frustration.

There is another painfully unspeakable quirk to jumping: its unpredictability. Sure, most of the time, it’s the same date for everyone—you can gauge it on your calendar and mark doomsday—but other times, it goes a day back, or forth, and it’s overwhelming in the highest form; you can never be at full peace, knowing anytime you can jump. When the month resets, so will everything else, see. You wake up to the same date on your planner, but it’s never actually the exact day—it plays out disparately for every stint you reset, and Semi thinks, perhaps that’s why jumping can never be just one, certain point in time, because anything within that contrastingly transpired month from the other can be a catalyst to a lost life.

So far, in his four months as a Jumper, Semi has tallied two marks for 31st of December—the last two times were painful: 30th of December and then 1st of January (this is just undeniably tragic for Semi).

 _Maybe 31 st of December is the better bet. _Semi straightens back up in his seat, crossing arms as he dives deep in thought. If what he hypothesises is correct (and he thinks it highly possibly is), and today was the 30th of December, then he has the rest of the hours, coupled with tomorrow’s to find _Kenjirou Shirabu_ and, in Heaven’s mercy, stop them from ending their life.

Well, he realises it’s a stretch to be able to “save” someone in just a day, plus, they’re strangers to each other, but progress is progress, and if he manages to find out even the slightest bit of information about his supposed “rescuee,” then all’s well that ends well. Semi will wake up to the reset, but with a new lead.

“When I do find him,” Semi starts and Tendou shoots him a side glance. “What then? How do you _save_ someone?”

“It depends on their problem, doesn’t it?” Tendou retorts. “But you can never go wrong in befriending them; earn their trust and give back the same. Tape the biggest hole first, and the rest will be a breeze.”

“I guess.” It still tickles Semi’s ears into a twitch when he hears Tendou make actual sense (which, strangely enough, isn’t as rare these days).

“Look, just do whatever the hell your pea-brain can think up.” The redhead emphasises his point with a soft knock on the crown of Semi’s head. The latter retracts. “At this point, you’ve got nothing to lose.”

“Yeah?” Semi makes a face of dripping sarcasm and Tendou nods, eyes closing dramatically, with the same amount of taunting and satire. “Well, I certainly don’t want any more jumping to gain either.”

“Hm. Touché.” The taller boy pushes his head off the foot of his palm, a leg playfully kicking the other’s desk. “Good luck then. Do it fast. All past jumpers are tired of you.”

 _“Gee,_ thanks.”

Tendou shrugs nonchalantly, a sardonic _you’re welcome_ in response to Semi’s obviously bitter and half-meant gratitude. The crimson-head rises from the seat, moving about to walk out of the room and to his department, waving a small goodbye to the ashen-haired boy, left to contemplate with himself.

* * *

Semi has formulated what is an intangible catalogue of all the godforsaken effects that come along with jumping, and his wildcard—unlisted vehement bane scribbled in red at the back of his mind—so far is _community service._ For someone like Eita Semi, community service is rather a rare occurrence, despite his long record of juvenile delinquency and whatnot; he always runs from it, but when he decided to change his ways, he opted it best to take it as the first stepping stone. And it is hell for all Semi cares, especially with _jumping_ now in the picture, he’s gaining no progress in both his Jumper duties and public service responsibilities, considering he’s living the same month over and over again.

It’s particularly difficult on Mondays to Wednesdays, 31st of December; other than the nauseating dread of his rescuee’s death scratching sharply at his back, there’s the strenuous environment of hospitals and its grim hands clasping his neck while he tries to maintain a smile, singing to forsaken children in hospital playrooms. It’s his community service, upsettingly revolting, considering Semi has never taken a fancy to hospitals.

He sighs a heavy breath, carefully scrawling his name on the log by the register, and the clerk in reception smiles empathetically. Semi takes notice of this and he bobs his brows upward in acknowledgment.

“Yeah, it’s a difficult time,” he says, placing the pen down and pushing the clipboard back forward. The worker mindfully takes it, offering Semi another encouraging beam, before she moves to make a call.

It’s all but a quiet night for Semi, in spite of the chatter-filled lobbies of the hospital floor, that he finds this a good moment to drown in his little headspace, set the mind straight, while he waits for the receptionist to give him the go. But the sudden surge of booming noises interrupts his thoughts, bellows and a screeching cry for help rings in Semi’s ears. There’s panic—heavy trepidation arising in the atmosphere and everyone is going frantic, even the clerk tending Semi, and even Semi himself.

 _This is why I don’t like hospitals._ He’s always walking on eggshells when he’s in one.

A nurse comes running down the reception area, face ashen and hair unkempt.

“We need Dr. Kim in Room 223,” she’s out of breath when she says it, but somehow still loud enough to hear the alarm over her voice. “Kenjirou Shirabu’s going into cardiac arrest.”

And Semi doesn’t miss the name that slips the nurse’s pale, chapped lips—the name that flies out of the newly called doctor that runs out from behind the reception counter. His mind blacks out, eyes widening at the familiar mention.

_Kenjirou Shirabu._

When the clogs in his head finally come together, there’s almost a clicking sound, and Semi inhales a sharp breath, the loud thumping of his chest deafening his ears.

_Fuck._

He flies off from his spot, dashing right behind the parade of doctors and nurses on the way to Room 223, ignoring the calls from the clerk who’s trying to stop him. Sue him for actually sliding into the godawful sickbay without the clerk nor the volunteers’ in charge’s permission, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t see for even a fraction of a second of what his rescuee is supposed to look like, before he loses the remaining minutes—or even seconds—into jumping again when _Kenjirou Shirabu_ lets go of their life once more.

Semi senses a swirl of vertigo as he tries to pace his breathing. He’s lagging behind the swarm of medical staffs ushering into 223 and when they sweep him off to the side with a defibrillating machine in tow, barging into the hospital room, he catches a glimpse of dirty blonde hair and messily cut bangs, and a helpless pallid figure on the hospital bed when the door swings open momentarily.

Before Semi can completely embed the face on the back of his mind, he feels a seething burn on his nape, a lightheaded vision, and he’s suddenly being pulled.

He wakes up to December 1 again.


	3. An Unfamiliar Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Semi deems an open panel as usually a sign of vacated room, nonetheless, he scuffles closer to the door, peeking inside from the transparent pane that is hooked on it. His shoulders slump. Empty.

There’s a newfound gusto burning inside Semi when he wakes up. _It’s 1 again?_ No matter, he thinks he’s achieved enough information to narrow the scopes of finding Kenjirou Shirabu, that the resetting of time incites no hint of indignation nor exhaustion—but an unusual shine of gratitude. For one, he finally has data about the name he has been given, and two, he has a full month to work on it (and he needs to work on it _fast)_.

“That’s an odd face,” Tendou remarks jestingly, nose scrunched. “They finally make sweet buns from your favourite bakery?”

“Even better,” responds Semi with wide eyes as he puts his backpack down on his seat. “I found Kenjirou Shirabu.”

“No way.” Tendou stares with a visibly surprised look on his face.

Semi ruffles his still damp hair dry. His excitement and thrill of the news to tell his friend about last night—or December 31st’s—ordeal nipped very much at his insides this morning, that he sprinted out of his apartment, hair still wet, sticking close to his face. It’s odd for Tendou to see his friend sans puffed up and wavy hair.

“Yes way.” Semi gives his hair one last flick, shower water sprinkling off to the sides (glad no one else is in the room aside from the two of them; it’s 6AM). “Oh, it was a pretty agonising moment; I hate hospitals and he was there. And he was _dying._ ”

The ash-headed lad sits on the desk. “But, all’s well that ends well, I guess. I have a lead now.”

“Did you see his face?”

“I didn’t get a good look,” says Semi with a face twisting in a hint of shame. “Although, I’m pretty sure I won’t forget that godawful haircut.”

Tendou cocks a brow. “He was literally dying and you thought of butchering his haircut?”

“He’ll live.” Semi crosses his arms, nodding to himself. “I’ll make sure he does.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t necessarily have a choice,” Tendou replies. “Otherwise, this won’t stop for all of us.”

“Thanks for the pep talk.”

Tendou puckers his lips in a kissy noise. “Anytime.”

He unpacks the tissue-wrapped sandwich in his hold, taking a huge bite right after. Semi has just realised his redheaded friend is somehow always found munching on bread and double-deckers at any vacant time of the day.

“So,” Tendou starts, mouth still full of his egg sandwich. “Do you know where to find him?”

“I’ll try at the hospital again,” Semi answers.

“And if he’s not there?”

“Then, fuck me.”

“Gross, dude.” Tendou gives a laugh as Semi kicks his chair. “Alright, then. Best of luck.”

* * *

At this point, Semi can only perceive all the blights and curses brought about by jumping. In retrospect, he thinks, logically, there categorically isn’t any benefit to the phenomenon—aside from an ego being fed for saving a life, but what’s glory going to do in glossing his name? It’s not making him any saner, given his circumstance.

But he attempts to suck it up, brushing away the feeling of pure misery as he ponders about his long-awaited lead in locating Kenjirou Shirabu. _Yeah, better to think that than constantly wallowing in my own filth._ And he clicks his pen, jotting series of words after lines with his lips on a little pout. His knees are brought close to his chest as he twists on the swivel chair in concentration.

He’s been writing down lyric after lyric he haphazardly thinks of for a new set of songs for his band, but while his progress count rivals that of Taylor Swift’s two full albums in one month, unfortunately, the instruments are going nowhere. Their melody is stuck and when they do finally finish half a song, it’s time for another jump—another reset. Semi’s head is about to explode.

He hopes this time it’s different; he now has a piece of information about Kenjirou Shirabu to navigate around, that maybe he and his band can actually start to get a move on.

“Let’s call it a day,” Nishinoya exasperatedly says with a sigh, curving his entire body atop the coffee table in dramatic emphasis. His face is contorted into a look of fatigue as he flails an arm. “I’m beat. My shoulders hurt.”

“You didn’t even do much.” Tsukishima nudges the older with his foot.

“My debilitation is still valid, asshole.”

“I think we do need to call it a day,” Kiyoko chimes in as she sets down her bass and frees her hair from the high ponytail she has donned. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, Eita?”

“Yep,” Semi says, popping the _p_ sound on the diction. He scoots off the edge of the chair, shoving his red-covered journal and clicking pen inside the backpack he brings. “I have to be at the hospital by 6:30.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s a Tuesday,” Nishinoya murmurs against his palm in recall; Semi is always on community service (spare for weekends), and on Mondays to Wednesdays, he works at the hospital, specially tending to the children and other times visiting wards, helping out on cleaning. “Will we be here tomorrow though?”

“I won’t be around until 5PM,” Kenma answers, pushing himself off the quiet corner where he has his synth mounted. “You can drop by earlier, make yourself at home.”

“No need to tell Yuu, he does it anywhere.”

“Jackass.”

“Alright, well…” Semi trails off as he rises from his seat, fixing his uniform and dusting off the bottom of his jeans. He’s still in his university clothes, having gone straight to Kenma’s studio right after his last period. “…I’m off. Cheers.”

A chorus of equally tired _‘cheers’_ and an endearingly prolonged _‘bye’_ from Nishinoya resounds as Semi exits the door. He waves them a small greeting, the band waving back limply, before he’s completely out of Kenma’s studio.

The hospital isn’t as far from his band’s quarters, that Semi has managed to reach the place in merely a five-minute commute, arriving just in time for his supposed call-time. When he gets there, he greets the same clerk at the reception counter, barely stopping himself from apologising about _yesterday’s_ events. He almost forgets he jumped, owing to how his “yesterday” is not the same for everyone else.

“You’re here.” The clerk beams the same encouraging smile from 31st of December. “The children are always excited about you.”

Semi lets a corner of his lips tug into a lopsided smile. “I sure hope they are. Otherwise, this will all be for nothing.”

At least, he does love the children, even with the reeking scent of ethanol and excessive white blinding his eyes, and the wary air hospitals always carry.

When the clerk has made the call to all volunteers’ in charge, she pops a thumb up for the flaxen-haired boy, nodding in allowance as she gestures for Semi to continue his way in. The lad tips his head gratefully, adjusting the guitar hanging from his back as his gaze darts to his wristwatch.

There are three minutes left before his duty in the playroom, so he decides to take a bit of a detour. He turns on the first left from the entrance, recalling the directions to Room 223 from last night’s incident. He isn’t sure if he will find the same frail boy _(with that ugly hair)_ inside—maybe Kenjirou Shirabu has only been sent into admission at the hospital on that 31st of December—but, much like his redheaded friend has said, he’s got nothing to lose.

When he reaches the faintly accustomed lobbies of floor 2, he makes another left, checking every door to his right as he does remember the room from there. His eyes land eventually on a small placard, _223,_ just above the entrance. There’s a thin fibered glass, transparent, on the door like any other hospital hatch, but while most of the rooms have theirs covered with blue curtains, Room 223’s is bare for anyone to look into.

 _I guess no one’s here._ Semi deems an open panel as usually a sign of vacated room, nonetheless, he scuffles closer to the door, peeking inside from the transparent pane hooked on it.

His shoulders slump. _Empty._

“Can I help you?”


	4. The Art of Indifference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shirabu cowers under the taller lad’s watchful stare, but he is a master of the art of indifference, so he stays motionless on his spot as the other unknowingly leans closer in inspection. When the bowl-cut haired deems the proximity too close for his liking, he falls a bit backwards on his step, brows furrowing deeper than they already are.

“Can I help you?”

Semi lets his gaze linger inside the vacant and bare hospital room one last second, as if staring at it longer will eventually magically manifest a pallid boy with sandy hair and uneven bangs lounging on the uncomfortable bed. He sighs defeatedly through his nose, shaking his head as he moves back to turn to the estranged voice.

He is about to answer a _no_ , followed by an _it’s fine,_ but as he shifts to his right, his mouth remains slightly parted, unable to form a coherent sound as the cogs in his mind starts to malfunction again. _Static._ His head goes blank. Eyeing the person before him, Semi finds a lean boy, standing shorter than him for a couple inches—diagonally cut blonde bangs falling over bleak, brown irises, and a clean medical coat pulled on.

Semi narrows his eyes. _Wait a damn minute._

“Are you related to the patient before here?” The slim boy asks monotonal. “They’ve been discharged since an hour ago.”

 _Does he work here?_ Semi’s already slitted eyes squints further in scrutiny. He doesn’t even hear what the boy is saying. _Why is he wearing a white coat?_

Shirabu cowers under the taller lad’s watchful stare, but he is a master of the art of indifference, so he stays motionless on his spot as the other unknowingly leans closer in inspection. When the bowl-cut haired deems the proximity too close for his liking (it’s not by much; he’s really just repulsed by closeness), he falls a bit backwards on his step, brows furrowing deeper than they already are.

“Can I help you?” Shirabu repeats, an audible undertone of threat in his voice that manages to fish Semi out of his headspace.

“Oh.” Semi recoils, rubbing his nape awkwardly. “I just thought you looked familiar.”

“Did you need anything with the patient?”

“Do you work here?” Semi fires back, completely ignoring the question from the shorter boy. It’s not that he intentionally did it; rather, Semi’s genuinely in too deep of his swirling realisations about the actual presence of his supposed rescuee standing before him, that he can’t hear anything else but his thoughts.

“With all due respect, why does that concern you, sir?”

“Just curious. I’ve been volunteering for the kids.” Well, “volunteering” is one way to put it. “But I haven’t really seen you around.”

Shirabu’s face seems to relax at the notion that the man before him helps out in the hospital, and he’s not just some dude whimsically being a weirdo too much for his own comfort. The tension in his shoulders dissipate, but the frown on the blonde’s mien remains.

“I’ve only been recently reassigned here,” Shirabu answers. “I’m an intern; this is my second rotation.”

“I see.” Semi blinks. “So, you’re a medical student?”

Shirabu’s forehead creases in confusion. “Yeah.”

“You’re here on a daily?”

“Yeah—” Shirabu interrupts himself with a sigh, peeking at the watch under his white coat. “Shouldn’t you be elsewhere? As far as I know, volunteers start at 6:30.”

 _Oh, shit._ Semi jolts on his spot, eyes whizzing towards the wall clock perched behind Shirabu. He checks the time: 6:34, and he clicks his tongue at the premise of having to work extra hours in community service if he doesn’t dash to the playroom right this second. So, he does—he takes off, sneakers squeaking against tiled floors, as he bids the blonde a meek “see you later.”

And see him later does Semi do, because the soonest he has fulfilled his tasks for the night’s public service, he paces back to the second floor, fortunately crossing paths again with the subject of his four-week penitence. Shirabu has his stare latched tightly on the papers clipped on the Manila folder he is clutching, strides too long and quick for Semi to catch up to. But he does so—barely—and he speed-walks right beside the shorter lad.

Shirabu is too engrossed in his documents to notice the flaxen-haired man at his left—that, or he genuinely just doesn’t care.

“Hi,” Semi meets and Shirabu greets him the same, with less delight, not even sparing the taller boy a glimpse. Semi adds with a hand holding out, “I’m Eita Semi. You’ll be seeing more of me from now on.”

Though it is awfully evident how disinterested Shirabu comes off to Semi, still, he announces himself completely, feeling the need to mark his presence to the medical student as early as now.

Shirabu stops on his tracks, eyes looking over the handshake and to the tall gentleman. He holds a quiet stare, and then plasters a pursed smile—a beam far more synthetic than the austere gloss of his eyes in attempts to cover true grief that Semi already knows exists within. Semi almost grimaces.

The slender, shorter lad only flashes a thin-lipped smile, then whirling to his right further into the lobbies, not even leaving a name in exchange for Semi’s introduction.

Well, he already knows it, anyway, but Semi would have appreciated it if it came directly from Shirabu himself. He mentally shrugs; _at least, he has the decency to act pleased._

Semi shifts on his place, swivelling around to walk down to the hospital’s exit. _Tomorrow then._

Shirabu throws his head back in weariness, arms falling limp to his sides as he rests at the hospital lounge. Beside him sits a university acquaintance, turned friend, who smiles at him empathetically, nudging a can of energy drink to his side of the table.

“You seem awfully more drained than usual.”

A groan escapes the blonde’s chapped lips.

“They made me run floor after floor, passing documents to-and-fro. I almost spilled a urinal in the lab—” Shirabu says, but a loud gush of breath from Ennoshita interrupts him. The older one tuts before the brunet can react far more dramatically. “— _almost._ And then, there was this weirdo who followed me around. Also, I have a paper due tomorrow and I haven’t started.”

“A _weirdo?”_ Ennoshita takes a gulp from his soda.

“Yeah.” Shirabu shifts on his seat, fiddling with the pop top of his energy drink. “I don’t know. Maybe he was tripping on something.”

“Huh.” The brunet shrugs, dropping the subject. “Well, you seem like you have a lot on your plate to work on. Shouldn’t you go home already?”

“I’m just waiting for Dr. Kim to let me off.”

“Are you heading back to your place?”

Shirabu looks up at Ennoshita through his dishevelled bangs. “I’ll drop by at the library first to work on my paper.”

“Isn’t your place just around here?” Ennoshita obliviously questions. “You’re not going back home to study?”

A grimace colours the usually deadpanned pale face of the shorter lad. He discerns a scratchy sensation picking at the back of his neck roughly, that he almost curls in his seat at the screeching feeling. Home _is one way of calling it_. Shirabu muses at this thought, chest slowing down as he almost shudders in the image of “home” _._ His eyes burn holes on his energy drink as if it carries a montage of history that he has always tried to forget.

He shakes his head timidly. “No.”

If the brunet notices the sharp shift of his friend’s demeanour, he surely takes care not to mention it.


	5. Spidey Reflexes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magically enough—and quite impressively—Semi is nimble on his toes, and his fast reflexes spares them both a hundred thousand-yen debt to the hospital. Shirabu lets out a loud air that Semi doesn’t miss.
> 
> The latter cocks a brow. “Spidey reflexes.”

Semi doesn’t forget to tattle about yesterday to Tendou—he never does; he feels if he doesn’t tell anyone about his daily progress as a Jumper, then it’s not real—maybe it’s never happened. But it _has_ happened, and this comes into a clearer perception for Semi when he steps into the hospital at 6PM, right after his rehearsal, too early for his call-time, and what he dubs the bane of the whole world's existence—Shirabu’s haircut—presents itself into full view under Semi’s keen eyes.

Shirabu’s sauntering the rest of the lobby carefully, peripherals blocked by stacks of cartons clutched to his chest, that he doesn’t notice Semi creep up to his side.

“Need a hand?” Semi asks casually and Shirabu flinches a fraction in surprise.

He stares incredulously at the tall man that’s placed themselves beside him unannounced. Shirabu blinks.

“I’ve got two for a reason,” he murmurs, proceeding to manoeuvre himself around the lobbies, ignoring the same “weirdo” from yesterday’s incident, with utmost care lest his small stature betrays him.

There are two things Semi has already deduced from twice the encounters he’s had with the man of the hour (and possibly his entire moments as a Jumper): One, while Shirabu’s figure is small compared to his—not by much, but he feels huge with how slim Kenjirou Shirabu is _(Is he even eating properly?)_ —he has the coordination and the prance of an athlete, maybe even the hands of one, rather overpowered by traces of medical responsibilities.

_He has gorgeous hands_. Semi finds himself staring. They’re thin and slender, and pale, but he can tell it is calloused enough in evidence of all the work.

Two, Shirabu is independent, perhaps even _too independent_ for his own good, leaving no room nor a minimal amount of space for company. Semi doesn’t know how he’s so sure of it, but in hindsight, it’s rather painfully obvious.

Once again, Lady Luck looks down on Eita Semi. _Really._ His four failed months at being a Jumper is enough, and now, his rescuee is apparently a shut-in medical student who majors in the science of detachment. He doesn’t know what to do with the information, nor has he any idea how he’s going to make the man trust him; Shirabu appears as though he’s made scepticism his middle name.

Still, Semi knows a struggling passer-by (debatable) when he sees one. Despite having shut down by the copper-haired man, Semi’s hands move to grab a few boxes that sat atop Shirabu’s already-towering one. The latter startles, having unanticipated the other ignoring his rejection of assistance.

Shirabu has always been the type to not read between the lines, as surprising as that is for a man of science. When a person vents anything remotely close to their emotions to him, he takes them at face value, frankly because it’s safer to have both his feet on the ground—it’s safer for him to take what’s said as meant, because he doesn’t have to feel like he’s walking on eggshells—and when push comes to shove for the person to accuse him of not seeing the hidden picture, he can play the defendant: _“Technically, you said another thing.”_

And he’s been built like that: brutally honest for someone with such an innocent face like his, who prefers to tuck himself into isolation when things begin to spiral, that he thinks everyone else must be the same as him.

Point is: he certainly doesn't expect this flaxen-haired-darkened-tips gentleman to inspect beyond his words. In retrospect, Shirabu is not one to hold grudges if ever Semi just goes on to tell him, “suit yourself” or something along those lines even with his wobbling body. But, sometimes, _reading between the lines_ comes in handy.

“Thanks…” Shirabu mutters against the cartons, trailing off as he tries to place a finger on the man’s name.

Semi seems to get the clue. “Eita Semi.”

Shirabu gives a curt nod. “Thank you, Semi.”

When Semi shrugs in reassurance, he almost topples his entire heap of boxes. Shirabu holds his breath, feeling air hitch at his throat, as if stopping his own exhale will somehow save the cartons of medical tools. Magically enough—and quite impressively—Semi is nimble on his toes, and his fast reflexes spares them both a hundred thousand-yen debt to the hospital.

Shirabu lets out a loud air that Semi doesn’t miss.

The latter cocks a brow in misplaced arrogance. “Spidey reflexes.”

And Shirabu barely restrains a snicker, hastily taking strides towards the bodega before this man named Eita Semi can see the change in the look on his face.

“Where to?”

“Just one more turn to the left and a few doors ahead,” Shirabu answers, walking a little ahead of the other to lead the way.

“I never got your name.”

The shorter lad takes a sound silence, an internal battle thumping in his head in debates of whether to slip his name to a total stranger or shun them down again. But, as much of a little shit Shirabu is, he’s still aware when and how to oversee a debt of gratitude. So, he exhales a long air quietly.

“Kenjirou Shirabu.”

Semi asks about the university Shirabu attends to, and he leisurely responds with the college of medicine that’s established a few blocks and a turn around the hospital. Semi also finds out he was older by a year than the med student, and Shirabu throws back the same question to Semi despite hating small talk, realising he’s turned the man down for more than enough already that he chooses to indulge in the conversation instead.

“Shiratorizawa.” Semi adds, “International Studies.”

Shirabu doesn’t even need to fake his fascination. His brows bob upward in surprise, looking back at the taller boy as if to confirm, and Semi nods, just as Shirabu settles his boxes down on the nearby desk as he fishes for the bodega’s key inside his lab coat’s pockets.

“This isn’t usually what an intern does, is it?”

The copper-haired boy shakes his head, a quick breath of amusement through his nose.

“No. We’re just undermanned today.”

“Is that so?”

The younger of the pair unlocks the rusty knob, lightly nudging the blue-painted door forward with his foot. As he turns the switch on, Semi shuffles inside with the mound of medical wares, and Shirabu trails in tow with his. They settle the boxes right beside the same looking packages that are already stashed on one corner, as per instructions by Shirabu’s supervisor, and Semi heaves a sigh once done.

“Are there any more boxes?” The ash-headed lad inquires, checking his watch. “I’ve got five minutes left until I have to be at the playroom.”

“There are a few more but nothing I can’t handle,” Shirabu answers honestly. “You should go now.”

“Are you sure you don’t need any more help?” Semi will stay and assist if he can, considering how flimsy Shirabu actually is, but he doesn’t want to disappoint the hospital kids either.

Shirabu nods, a small grateful smile on his lips. “I’m fairly certain, Semi. Thank you.”


End file.
